


Edge Of a Sword

by apfelgranate



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8978281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: When she traces the long, thin kaiju-scars on his belly with her fingertips, the shiver underneath his skin becomes a quake.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pickleplum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/gifts).



> This takes place in my [swordmaker au](http://apfelgranate.tumblr.com/tagged/swordmaker-au). You don't really need to read the other entries for this to make sense though, you just need to know that the kaiju are vaguely human-sized instead of gigantic, and the Drift is their hivemind/dreamscape.

In the shallows of the Drift, it is easier to remember that you are two people. Once you step into the current, into the deep dark places where every light in the distance belongs to another mind—the mind of something old, something monstrous, something alien—there is no choice but to melt together with anything that's human. Otherwise, the current will drag you down into the cold and blue until the kaiju find you. And even when you return, to the world and your body, having clung to the warmth of someone else's mind, it takes a long time until the chill of the Drift leaves you…

Not that Mako knows that firsthand. Not yet.

Stacker tells her of the dangers, and she remembers how long it took for the gouges the kaiju had carved into his skin to heal. Tamsin told her of the dangers and the shield you become for each other. (Tamsin's wounds never had the chance to become scars.) Herc, Kaori, Duc, the Kaidonovskys; they all tell stories, some more elaborate than others.

Chuck is tight-lipped, giving up his Drift memories in half-sentences and the silences between. But without fail, he finds her after he leaves the Drift. He shivers under her hands, subtle but unmistakable, and his skin is cold. He curls around her and sticks his ice-cold nose up under her jaw, where blood flows strong and warm. She hisses and laughs, she turns in his arms and grabs his hair, she puts her mouth on his pulse-point in retaliation, she rolls on top of him. When she traces the long, thin kaiju-scars on his belly with her fingertips, the shiver underneath his skin becomes a quake.

Now, they are—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, soon to be nineteen—and Chuck has been taller and broader than her for some time. This time, she doesn't let him tug her to her bed. Chuck rolls his eyes and huffs, then settles himself between her legs, arms wrapping around her waist.

Mako can't stop the breathy laugh it always startles from her when he nuzzles her belly, his cold, cold nose and mouth finding the sliver of bare skin between her shirt and pants as unerringly as a homing missile. She curls her fingers into his collar, pulls until he makes a wet little noise.

"I'm working," she says. Chuck's eyes are very bright when he looks up at her.

"On what?" he asks, and he drawls the last word out until it becomes almost trisyllabic.

Mako looks at him for a long time. Finally, she reaches over, takes the model, and shows him.

(Caitlin Lightcap once explained the theory; how she had built armor you can carry into the Drift. Humanity and warmth and memories are well and good, but against the crackling blue lightning of kaiju claws and teeth, you take any advantage you can get.)

"…That's a sword," Chuck says.

"A chain sword," Mako corrects him. "The blade is collapsible."

When he doesn't say anything, she puts the model on her desk again, untangles his arms from around her waist, gets up and walks over to her bed. The mattress creaks as she sits down. Chuck follows her with his eyes.

"You can't kill kaiju," he says, "not in the Drift. What you _can_ do is kick their ass, drag their brains for info, and get the hell out of dodge. That's _easy_." There's a hard smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"No," Mako says slowly, intently, "I suppose _you_ could not kill one."

Chuck's face grows ruddy. "You trying to rile me up, Mori?"

She watches the blush spread down his neck, how it turns his freckles darker, how it edges its way into the V of his unbuttoned henley. She puts her hands on the edge of the bed, leans forward, and opens her knees.

"You've already interrupted my work." Chuck's gaze flits from her face down to the space between her thighs, and back again. He's already moving when he speaks again: "If anyone's gonna shank a kaiju in the Drift, it'll be me."

"How do you intend to do that, without a blade?"

"Mako—" His throat works, and whatever he was about to say is swallowed. For half a second, she wonders what would have tumbled out—but then he goes to his knees in front of her, and the movement is so smooth and practiced it makes her breath hitch. He says her name again, and his hands are on her belt.

Mako puts one hand in his hair, slides it to the back of his head, and grips tight.

"Ask politely," she whispers, her throat dry.

"Please," Chuck says, his voice brittle. "May I—"

–––——{==

Four months later, Mako steps into the Drift for the first time. Woven into the neural network of her lower arms is the memory of a sword, sharpened to a cutting edge. Behind her, Chuck's warmth burns like a bonfire.


End file.
